The Hours Before Dawn (8 page)

I
t seemed that Mark had suddenly become worried about Louise’s broken nights. He had known about them
theoretically
for weeks, of course – had, indeed, often complained bitterly about his own unavoidable share in them – but it was only after discovering her in the scullery last night that he began to display real concern on her behalf.

And if only this concern hadn’t taken the form of coming home unexpectedly to lunch just as Louise had got everything cleared away, she might have been deeply touched by it. As it was, she enjoyed his solicitous embrace with only a quarter of her mind; the other three quarters were already busily
ransacking
in imagination the refrigerator and the depleted store of tins, racing to have an answer ready for the inevitable next stage of his greetings:

‘I’m starving, I can tell you! I missed lunch at the canteen to dash back here. What is there? Something good?’

Louise hadn’t the heart to tell him that there were four teaspoonfuls of sieved spinach warming through in a teacup – Michael’s first course. The girls had finished their sausages and fried potatoes and gone back to school half an hour ago. There wasn’t even any potato left.

‘I’ll make an omelette,’ she hazarded, trying to remember
how many eggs there were left, and at the same time to smile brightly and welcomingly. For after all, it
had
been terribly sweet of Mark to worry about her and dash home like this.

But the bright smile did not quite come off; and neither did the calculations about the eggs. Mark already seemed deflated even before he realised that his lunch was to consist of a tin of baked beans and a warmed-up sausage. And by this time Michael’s spinach was far too hot, and would have to be left to cool again. So Louise had to placate Michael by picking him up and carrying him on her left arm wherever she went. She heated and dished up the beans clumsily, with one hand, watching whatever gay hopes Mark had come home with fading one by one. He spoke only once:

‘Do you remember, before we were married, I used to come to your flat for lunch on Saturdays? You used to knock up the most marvellous little snacks then, when you got in from work. With mushrooms and things.’

And though he didn’t pursue the subject, Louise felt the tears coming into her eyes. It
had
been fun, once. Even the three strenuous hours needed on Friday evenings to get the said snacks into a state in which they could be so nonchalantly ‘knocked up’ at one o’clock on Saturday – they had been fun, too. And in those days, with the April sun shining like this, she would have been wearing a new summer skirt and a white sweater, not this eternal overall.

Yet what could one do? What could
any
woman do? Not even the most brilliant fashion-designer had so far devised an outfit suitable both for fascinating a jaded husband and for
having
sieved spinach spat on to it. And yet, Louise knew, it wasn’t only gaiety and glamour that Mark was looking for. He had come home really anxious about her; ready to be protective and tender. If he had found her utterly helpless and defeated, appealing to him for help, that would have done just as well as
glamour – perhaps even better. But somehow she hadn’t been able to do that, either. I just haven’t the
energy
to be helpless, thought Louise dismally, as she watched the last of the spinach trickling from the corners of Michael’s mouth.

‘Well, what do you say? Shall we go?’

Louise blinked. Even sitting on a hard kitchen chair for five minutes was enough to make her drowsy now; apparently she could even doze over the shovelling of spinach into that obstinate pink mouth….

‘Go where?’ was the best she could do, and she watched Mark stifle a sigh of impatience.

‘That film. The one I’ve been telling you about. And I must say, I thought you’d have been keen, too. It’s just your kind of film. At least, it would have been once. Honestly, I don’t know what you
do
like doing nowadays.’

It was on the tip of Louise’s tongue to answer truthfully: ‘I just like sleeping. Nothing else. There’s nowhere you could take me – no entertainment on the face of this earth – that would mean a row of pins to me compared with a few hours’ unbroken sleep.’

But, of course, she couldn’t say it. Not with Mark’s blue eyes already looking so hurt, so baffled.

‘I planned it specially,’ he was saying, ‘because it seems to me you’re overdoing things. I thought you needed a night out. I thought you’d enjoy it.’

‘Of
course
I’d enjoy it!’ Louise assured him hastily. ‘I’d love it – it would be marvellous….’ Her tongue gabbled on glibly, expertly, striving by itself to smooth the disappointment from his face, while her mind busied itself with rearranging the
afternoon
and evening. The ironing would have to wait then, yet another day. The stew would have to go on at once if they were to have supper so early – in fact, it should have gone on an hour ago. Perhaps it would be better to save it for tomorrow and
just have bacon and eggs tonight. No – that wouldn’t do – it must be something that could be got ready well beforehand, because Michael’s meal would have to be squeezed in, too, just before their own supper – as late as possible or he would be wanting another feed long before they got home. And what about fetching Harriet from her dancing class? Perhaps Mrs Hammond would do it – or was Vicky Hammond still at home with chicken-pox? But even if not, Harriet still wouldn’t be home till nearly seven, too late for this early supper. Perhaps she had better miss the class altogether this week? Oh, but that would never do: she was to be the Third Rabbit in the Easter show, and tonight’s class was practically a dress-rehearsal; and besides, Miss Walters would be giving out the pattern for the rabbits’ ears. Could Harriet be trusted to bring the pattern home safely if Louise didn’t fetch her herself? And if not, would Louise be able to design a pair of ears that would do well enough? If only Miss Walters wasn’t so exacting about the
children’s
costumes – really, it was ridiculous – anyone would think it was a Royal Command performance at Covent Garden, not just a bunch of six-and seven-year-olds prancing about in a church hall. And yet, on the other hand, they really
did
look rather sweet all dressed exactly alike, with their plump little legs and grave faces….

Her tongue must have been doing its work well all this time, for when Louise turned her attention to him, Mark seemed quite cheerful again; the hurt look was gone.

‘Who are you going to get to baby-sit?’ he was asking, tilting his chair back and running his fingers through the crisp,
red-gold
curls, of which Margery had so ineptly inherited the redness without either the curls or the golden lights.

‘Oh – well – that’s the trouble,’ said Louise unhappily. ‘It’ll have to be one of the Short List, I’m afraid, as we’re starting so early.’

At this, Mark looked doubtful, too. The Short List was very short indeed, consisting as it did of people who were willing not merely to sit, in the literal sense, but to supervise the going to bed and settling down which was involved if the parents left much before seven.

‘Listen – why shouldn’t we ask Vera – Miss Brandon?’ Mark sounded eager and confident. ‘I’m sure she’d do it.’

Louise wondered why she hesitated before answering. It was a good idea – of course it was. It couldn’t put Miss Brandon out very much since she was living in the house; and since the children were still slightly in awe of her, they would probably behave well. She would be suitable in every way. Why then should Louise feel so uneasy – yes, so frightened – at the very idea? Mark was watching her face, puzzled.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You’re looking quite scared. Don’t you like the idea?’

Since Louise had been asking herself the very same questions, she found it almost a relief to be forced now to find some reasonable answer.

‘It’s just that it seems a bit awkward,’ she explained
uncertainly
. ‘I mean, whether to ask her to do it as a favour or – or pay her, like a professional baby-sitter, I mean. That is, with her living in the house with us like this. It makes it awkward, don’t you see?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Mark cheerfully. ‘You’re always looking for such complicated difficulties, Louise, just as if there weren’t enough simple ones in the world. Well, never mind. Get someone else. Who is there?’

‘I could try Mrs Hooper,’ said Louise, not very hopefully. Mrs Hooper’s skill in asking favours for herself was second only to her skill in evading the favours asked of her; and her talents were never more in evidence than in a telephone conversation with Louise.

‘You’ll never get her,’ predicted Mark with gloomy
confidence
. ‘It’ll end up with you promising to go round and look after
her
brats tonight. I’ve heard you telephoning that woman before! Look, why not get What’s-her-name? The fat girl with the trail of magenta knitting?’

‘Edna Larkins, you mean? But she doesn’t go to her
shorthand
classes any more,’ said Louise elliptically. ‘I mean, she only ever did come so that she could study without her aunt having the wireless on all the time.’

‘
I
never saw her studying,’ said Mark obstinately. ‘She was always pawing mounds of wool about, like a dispirited kitten. Or do you mean she’s stopped wearing home-made twin-sets, too?’ he added, a little more hopefully.

‘No – I mean I don’t know. I could try her. Now I come to think of it, Miss Larkins
did
say something about Edna’s starting German classes this spring. I’ll go round and ask her about it as soon I’ve finished Michael….’

Miss Larkins was full of sympathy, as always, and very much regretted that her niece wouldn’t be able to go out tonight as she was going to wash her hair. Of course, Miss Larkins herself would have been only too delighted to help out if only
she
hadn’t been going to wash her hair, too; and if only her rheumatism hadn’t been playing her up lately, and if she hadn’t been having too many late nights recently, and if she hadn’t felt it was wrong to leave Edna by herself too much, a young girl was such a responsibility….

Louise was touched. It had not occurred to her that Edna could be regarded by anyone as a responsibility – not now that the shorthand classes had rendered her capable of keeping
herself
in knitting wool and suet pudding. But apparently her aunt could see through Edna’s doughy exterior to all sorts of hidden complexities; and if only Louise had had nothing to do between now and supper-time, she could have heard about them all. As
it was, she had to back down the road making those
understanding
noises which become so inadequate at a range of more than two yards; and she finally fled into her own house hoping that she hadn’t hurt Miss Larkins’ feelings. Or shut the door loud enough to rouse Mrs Philips? Or taken so long over the whole business that Mrs Hooper would have gone out before she could phone her?

For Mrs Hooper was the only remaining hope. Not a very bright one, to be sure, but after all, she had her sister staying with her this week, and hadn’t she always said that when this sister was staying with her she was free as air, and could go out all the time? The sister who
worshipped
Tony and Christine, and
loved
to be left with them, all day and every day.

Except, apparently, today. Particularly this evening it would be difficult. Yes, the sister
was
here, and, yes, she still
adored
being with Tony and Christine, but, just this evening … At this crucial point in the explanation, Mrs Hooper gave one of those headlong twists to the conversation which are always so effective on the telephone, where your victim cannot register protest by look or gesture:

‘My dear!’ she cried exuberantly. ‘What about your
mother-in
-law? You don’t mean to tell me
she
won’t help you out?’ – and without waiting for a reply, she went on, with indignant
sympathy
: ‘Old people make me sick, they really do! They’ll never do a hand’s turn to help. They simply batten on the young ones … interfering … possessive … working out their own frustrations….’ So indignant had she become on Louise’s behalf that Louise had to move the receiver a few inches away from her ear to let the technical terms shrill against her eardrums less painfully. As she listened to the stereotyped
diatribe
against mothers-in-law – this overworked blend of old music-hall jokes and half-digested modern psychology – Louise found herself wondering how much longer this legend would
survive in the face of the real life mothers-in-law that one
actually
meets nowadays. Energetic, preoccupied women, often smart and attractive, never with a minute to spare. All of them as robustly determined not to interfere, intervene or assist as three generations of cruel jokes could make them….

‘It’s not like that at all. It’s just that she’s always busy—’ began Louise; but before her defence of her mother-in-law could be developed further, she realised that Mrs Hooper was no longer listening – that is, if the degree of attention Mrs Hooper accorded to other people’s remarks ever could be described as listening. Pressing her ear close to the telephone, Louise could hear a muffled conversation going on between Mrs Hooper and someone else in the room; and when Mrs Hooper spoke again down the telephone she sounded surprisingly meek and unsure of herself:

‘It’s all right,’ she said to Louise, uneasily. ‘My sister says – that is – I
can
come this evening, as early as you like.’

This was so unexpected that Louise could hardly find a reply.

‘It’s terribly nice of you. Could you possibly manage half past six?’ she got out at last; and when Mrs Hooper agreed without argument she was so surprised and relieved that it did not occur to her to wonder what lay behind such uncharacteristic obligingness.

Something at least of what lay behind it became clear when Mrs Hooper turned up that evening only ten minutes late, and accompanied by Tony, looking both bored and belligerent in a torn jersey and broken-toed gym shoes. His features were sharp and inquisitive, like a rather grubby sparrow, and he met Louise’s glance of ill-concealed dismay with one of emotion even less disguised.